


Strawberries & Cigarettes

by theGirlwiththebrokenSmile



Series: Everything, Everything [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1957-1958, Cigarettes, I changed some details though, I mean, I'll probably add tags, Inspired by Real Events, John is completly smitten at first glance, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Probably alcohol, Slow burn -ish, Teenagers, and also pretty in general, but Paul's pretty obvious, don't get confused by the first chapter this will be Paul's perspective, so there you have it, this has been done before but not by me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25914940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theGirlwiththebrokenSmile/pseuds/theGirlwiththebrokenSmile
Summary: Paul doesn't know where the world ends and John begins.//July 6th 1957 - July 12th 1958
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: Everything, Everything [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935433
Comments: 29
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**~ Featuring:**

a fete at a church – first meetings – butterfly-eyelashes – a guitar – an important question

The air in the tent is hot and sticky, smelling like overripe strawberries and cigarette-smoke. John wipes his fingers at his chequered shirt, greasy from his hair gel and sweat, and looks around. The fete is coming to an end and he and his band mates are packing away their instruments in one of the smaller tents, next to the church.

They’re talking about how the gig went, pretty damn good, and how short the skirts of that group of girls next to the stage were, pretty damn short, and which Pub they wanna go to tonight.

“The Caledonia?”, Colin asks and John makes a face.

“’m sick of that one”, he exclaims and instantly everyone’s agreeing, searching for other options. Loud voices are filling the air, only interrupted by Len’s boasting laughter. 

It was sunny today, the weather very close, the sky white-hot. It was crowded accordingly. The long patches of grass between the church and the tents were filled with chatting, dancing people and children, running around, blowing soap bubbles into the air.

His mum and his aunt were there too – he saw Julia drag Mimi through the crowd at one point, right up to the stage. He threw them a wink, while singing into the rusty microphone. Julia had been dancing and clapping, her strawberry-hair wind-swept, her smile too big for her face. Mimi’s expression was the complete opposite of course, her face tense and a little wary, as if she was merely tolerating all of it. It’d almost made him laugh. Both of them left by now, like most of the people, and it’s getting late.

Pete in front of him is packing away his washboard, grinning like the rest of them. His blond hair’s a mess, tousled and greasy like his own.

“Ya messed up twice – don’t think I didn’t hear ya”, John tells him, pushing his shoulder. Pete rolls his eyes at him, but doesn’t dare to push back.

“Hey, guys!”, he hears another voice say and throws a glance over his shoulder to see his mate Ivan walk into the tent, another boy behind him. He’s grinning widely, flailing out his arms. “That was a real great show! Did ya see the people dancing to Come Go with Me?“

“Yeah, Ivan, we were there”, Len calls from where he’s standing, sounding amused.

“Well, it was _gear_ –“

But John doesn’t even hear Ivan’s next words cause his attention is suddenly pulled to the other boy, standing half behind him. He’s sure he’s never seen him before. He has shiny, raven-black hair, a bit like Elvis, and he’s looking around the tent curiously. He’s smaller than Ivan and skinnier and has the softest baby-face and he can’t possibly be any older than fourteen.

“Who’s that?”, John asks, interrupting whatever Ivan was talking about.

His mate frowns at him, confused for a second, but then he understands who John is referring to and starts beaming. He grabs the boy’s shoulders enthusiastically and pulls him forward at bit, closer to John. “This is me mate Paul – I was telling you I’d bring him!”

“Hm.” John can’t really remember, but then Ivan’s been telling him a lot of things a lot of the time, so he can’t be held accountable for it. The boy, Paul, is looking at the floor now, squirming slightly in Ivan’s grip. “You told me you’d bring him? Can he play?”

“Yes, he can! Better than you.”

Ivan’s eyes widen instantly after, realizing what he just said. He stutters around, face red as a tomato. Pete starts cackling and John raises an eyebrow.

“Excuse me?”

“I – I mean not _better_. Just different, just more, uh, _technically_ correct. But that doesn’t make it necessarily better – there are many different factors, like, like, uh –“

“Alright, shut up”, John says and watches a little pleased as Ivan instantly clicks his mouth shut and swallows hard.

“So, anyways, ’m John, the leader of this band. Play something for me, won’t ya?”, he says, addressing the boy directly, hoping he’ll finally look at him. And he does, rising his eyes slowly. They’re dark and scintillating, and his eyelashes are fucking unreal – long and curved, black like his hair. They flutter against his cheekbones every time he blinks, like butterflies.

“I didn’t bring my guitar”, he says and his voice is soft, polite, apological.

John snips his finger’s in Pete’s direction without looking away from those eyelashes. “Well, you’ll just have to use mine, princess, eh? That okay?”

Pete gets the hint and jogs over to their instruments to bring John his guitar, while two of the others come closer as well. Quiet murmur fills the tent. There’s a pink blush covering Paul’s cheeks now and he bites his lip and nods.

“Okay.”

John grabs his guitar from Pete and hands it over, taking a step closer to the boy. Paul comes closer as well, stepping out of Ivan’s reach and they meet in the middle, their fingers brushing over the realm of the guitar.

“You didn’t tell me yet if you liked our performance today”, John says.

Paul blinks at him, fluttering his lashes and there are green spots in the dark of his irises, like freckles. “It was alright.”

John scoffs, but there’s amusement sparking in him, rather than annoyance. “ _Alright?_ ”

“Yeah, the washboard player messed up twice. I thought the singer was pretty good though.”

They are roughly the same hight, Paul’s just an inch or so shorter than him, and as John grins and breaths in slowly through his nose he can smell sugar and dough and melting sunscreen. It’s dizzying, almost.

It happened before, that he noticed another guy’s attractiveness – but usually that’s different than his love for birds. His love for blokes is visual – he studies their hands lifting cigarettes in the darkness of movie theatres, the slope of a shoulder, the angle of a hip. Looking at them sideways, he examines them in different lights. _Don’t move_ , he thinks sometimes. _Stay like that, let me have that._

This time though, right this moment, he imagines himself stepping even closer, actually reaching out, wrapping his arm around that narrow waist, nuzzling those soft cheeks, breathing him in, trying to figure out if that sweet smell comes from his skin or his hair. The dizziness grows stronger and for a second, he feels like he’s floating right outside his body.

Then Paul takes a step back, flipping John’s guitar over. John blinks at the sudden distance between them. He swipes his tongue across his teeth, while those weird thoughts flow out of his brain, slowly, like syrup.

“Yer holding it wrong”, Pete says from somewhere far away and somebody else snickers. Paul just grins, holding up his left hand, wiggling his fingers. It shouldn’t look as endearing as it does. Then again, John shouldn’t be losing his mind, yet here we are.

“Leftie”, Paul explains to his stupid mates and then he begins to play. He plays the beginning of “Twenty Flight Rock”, his delicate fingers strong and confident on the strings. The music he pulls out of John’s too-tight strung guitar punches the air, vibrantly and vigorously. He looks directly at John and then he starts sinning. 

_Mine_.

He’s not even sure what does it, maybe the way Paul’s eyes stay on his for the entire song, unwavering, like he doesn’t want to miss his reaction. Maybe it’s the way he knows the words John doesn’t, knows how to play that one chord John can’t figure out, is able to reach those high notes John will never be able to, filling a hole John hadn’t realized was there. His voice is beautiful and there’s a spark of envy and a sense of wonder, bitter-sweet, like Lifesavers-candies. It’s making his jaw ache.

Paul sings the bridge and then changes the song smoothly, going over to “Be-Bop-A-Lula”, holding John’s gaze. There’s a dimple at his chin and a strand of black hair falling in his forehead and a flush high on his round cheeks. He looks so confident suddenly and so invested in the music, like he cares deeply about it, but also like he doesn’t even begin to understand how good he already is, at that age. How good he will be – John can already see it, like a vision. Better than Little Richard, better than Elvis, god. Better than anyone.

_Mine._

John swallows, then again. There’s too much spit in his mouth. He feels light-headed. The song comes to an end far too soon and Paul’s fingers still on the strings. He’s still looking at John and John’s still looking back. Ivan’s rushed compliments and Colin’s low whistle reach John’s ears after a few seconds and he realizes slowly that there are other people. In the tent. In the world. At all.

“How old are you?”, he asks. His voice sounds strange and he clears his throat, watching as Paul bites his lip.

“Fifteen.”

He raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Since when?”

“Uh.” Paul blushes all the way to his neck. “Since June. Almost a month.”

John hears Colin and Len murmur that that’s way too young, but he ignores them, all of them.

“Well”, he says, drawing out the word. “You knew the lyrics to Twenty Flight Rock.”

Paul nods enthusiastically. “Yeah – my Dad bought the studio album a few days ago and I listened to it so many times – It’s really great. Love Eddie Cochran.”

John finds himself nodding as well, a grin spreading across his face. He just can’t help it. “He’s gear. _Skinny Jim_ is my favourite.“

“Mine too! And the new one – _Sittin’ in the Balcony_ ”, Paul adds, before he bites his lip, hesitating. “So, uh, you liked it? My playing?”

“Yes.” John raises an eyebrow again, going for mocking, but he knows he looks a little impressed instead. “It was alright.”

Paul laughs loudly. He’s the brightest thing in the room. His Bambi-eyes dart around until his gaze fixes on something and he lights up even more. John turns around to see what Paul is looking at – an old piano, standing in a corner, collecting dust.

He looks back at Paul, unable to hide his amusement. “What, you play that too?” 

Paul nods. “We’ve got one in our living room.”

“Well, show me.”

“Really?"

John doesn’t answer, just turns around to walk over to the old instrument. He hears how Paul gives the guitar back to skip after him quickly. John stops in front of the wooden bench and gestures for Paul to sit down. He does, opening the fall board. His fingers skim the keys carefully, pressing some of them down, testing them out. He throws a glance at John.

“It’s a little untuned“, he explains expertly but starts playing regardless. It’s a soft classical piece by Bach, and untuned or not-untuned this must be the best that piano ever sounded. The music fills out the tent like a delicious smell while Paul’s delicate fingers dance over the keyboard quickly.

After a while the music slows down, fades, again way too soon. Paul looks up though his eyelashes, chewing on his lip nervously, like he’s waiting for John’s approval. And John doesn’t know what’s happening, what’s wrong with him – he should be making fun of Paul’s song-choice, ask him if he can play something his grandmother _isn’t_ listening to while baking bread.

“Do ya want to join the band?”, he blurts instead.

Paul blinks, surprised, before a gleeful expression spreads all over his face. His hands slip from the keys and he leans back a bit, confident again, like he knows he’s in control of the situation now.

He’s grinning cheekily. “I’ll think about it.”

John narrows his eyes at him and decides that just won’t do. “You have a day. Then I’ll need an answer. Here.” He grabs a nearby pen and then Paul’s wrist to push back his jacket. He pulls the lid off with his mouth and scribbles his landline on the milky skin of Paul’s arm. “Call me tomorrow.”

Paul watches the dark numbers scattered across his arm and nods, still grinning. “I will. Just – yer mates think I’m too young, don’t they?”

“I don’t give a shit. This is my band”, he explains, cockily. “I get to decide who gets to be in and who’s out. And I chose you.”

The words are heavy in his mouth and he can’t look away from the green sprinkles in Paul’s eyes, can’t help but think _please choose me back_. Paul’s lips part as if he wants to say something but then Colin is screaming his name, making both of them flinch.

“John – ya need to help us pack the things together, come on. We still have to carry most of it to Nigel’s truck, remember?”

John bites the inside of his cheek so harshly he’s tasting blood and breaths through his nose, trying not to walk over and strangle Colin.

“Yeah, uh, I need to go anyways”, Paul says and gets up from the bench. He bumps his toe on it and hops around for a second til he finds his balance again, scrunching up his nose cutely. John stares and feels a sudden rush of _something_ shoot through him.

“How are you getting home?”

“Bus.” Paul scrunches up his nose again, thinking for a second. “I mean, hopefully there’s still one going.”

“What if there isn’t?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I’ll have to walk then.”

“Where do you live?”

“20 Forthlin Road, in Allerton.” He chuckles. “What is this? Twenty questions?”

John ignores him. “That’s pretty far, isn’t it? You can’t walk that far this late.”

“Uh, yeah, it’ll be fine – it’s actually just half an hour, if I don’t stroll. And Ivan’s going the same direction as me.” He waves over to their friend, who’s standing at the exit of the tent, seemingly waiting for Paul. “So, uh, thanks, John. And I’ll call ya tomorrow to let ya know. Promise.”

He smiles and this feeling of _something_ rushes through John again and he wants to say something else, but none of his thoughts make any fucking sense _,_ so he finds himself nodding. His throat is strangely tight as Paul walks away.

“ _John_ ”, Colin screams from somewhere. “Come on mate, there’s –“

“Yeah, yeah. Jesus Christ”, John grumbles and walks over to his friends. He whacks Colin over the head, ignoring his overdramatic yelp of pain. When he looks towards the exit of the tent, Paul is gone.

**~**


	2. Chapter 2

**~ Featuring:**

Forthlin Road – a cloud of heat – a telephone cable – lots of information – a splintered memory

The buildings appear to be glued together, mostly small houses and apartment blocks, whose brick walls look bleeding red in the sunset. They hide the clatter of dishes, mismatched wallpapers and threadbare sofas. There is concrete and empty hat-stand trees and dry air.

Paul runs up to his house, number 20, through the small front yard. He doesn’t stop to catch his breath, till he reaches the door, even though his throat feels like sand paper and his back is soaked with sweat. It’s late evening. The sun’s low on the sky but it’s still unusually hot, like there’s a cloud of heat hovering over the city of Liverpool.

Paul wipes a few strands of black hair out of his forehead as he unlocks the door and steps inside the small house. It’s pleasantly cool in here, compared to outside. He walks into the kitchen first, to pour himself a glass of water. It’s cold against his fingers, wet on his skin, and he gulps it down greedily. He takes a few seconds to catch his breath afterwards, before he walks back into the corridor. He stops at the telephone on the wall, crème-coloured, artlessly.

It’s Sunday and Paul, Mike and their Dad spent all day at aunt Jin’s house. Paul and Mike helped her picking apples in the gardens, with the sun burning down on them, the grass patches stretching out endlessly behind the house. Then they all sat in the living room for a while, drinking tea. There was too much sugar in it and too little milk. They were talking about school and the new Prime Minister, but mostly they were listening to stories about Jin’s best friend Lizzie’s husband, who apparently has a serious drinking problem.

She made her special fruitcake too, and Paul normally loves it, all of it, but today he could barely eat, or concentrate on her stories about Lizzie. He felt unsettled and on edge, like there were needles under his skin. 

He couldn’t wait to go home and when his Dad decided they would stay for dinner, he almost groaned in frustration. Luckily, he was able to convince him that he had to go home to finish his math homework for tomorrow and would just eat a sandwich during it. His Dad had agreed and Paul had kissed aunt Jin goodbye, before hurrying all the way here.

Now he grabs the telephone off the wall and takes a deep breath. Suddenly he doesn’t feel in a hurry anymore. His heart is hammering in his chest and his palms are sweaty, more from nerves than the heat. He thinks about yesterday, the fete, the stuffy air in the tent, the music under his fingers, filling the whole room. He tells himself he’s being stupid. There's no need to be nervous - after all, John asked him to call, more like _ordered_ him to.

Paul draws in a breath and looks at the numbers on his arm, faded to a pale grey after the shower this morning. They’re barely visible now, under the sheen of sweat on his skin. He reaches a hand out to the dial plate and turns it all the way to the 0.

His breath still comes too quickly. It seemingly takes forever till he dialled the whole number and lifts the receiver to his ear, waiting for it to connect. 

It rings five times.

“Good evening, this is Mimi Smith speaking, how can I help you?”, a woman’s voice answers finally, sounding posh and a hint annoyed, like she was interrupted doing something very important.

“Uh”, Paul makes stupidly, thinking for a second John gave him a wrong number. Maybe he lied, maybe this was all a joke to him, maybe he _hated_ his playing. “I . . . can I – I wanted to speak to John Lennon?”

The woman huffs, even more annoyed. “Who is this?”

“My name’s Paul. McCartney”, he adds, lifting his hand to mouth. He bites down on the tip of his finger and feels his throat tighten, a pain along the jawline. He started to chew his nails again, a habit he can’t seem to quit. The woman is silent for a bit and the taste of pennies fills his mouth.

“One moment please”, she says finally. Paul breathes a sigh of relief. He taps his toes against the carpet while he waits. They make a short, random melody that’s been stuck in his head for a few days. He wonders if he should write it down.

After a minute he hears a rustling sound and then the breath of another person, close to his ear. He stops moving.

“Paul?”, John asks, sounding as breathless as Paul feels, like he ran down the stairs. Paul wonders if he imagines the delight in his voice or if it’s really there. What he definitely doesn’t image is how deep it is and how _cool_ his name sounds when John says it. 

He slowly leans back against the wall, like there’s a magnet in his back, pulling him towards it. He pulls his finger from his mouth and wraps the chord of the phone around it tightly.

“Yeah. Hey”, he says, sounding shy, and what the hell, he isn’t even shy.

“Hey.” John sounds _definitely_ delighted now. “’m glad ya called. How are you doin’?”

“Uh, good. Was at my aunt’s place today. We picked apples in her garden and . . . stuff.” It sounds like the most boring thing on earth and he wants to hit his face against the wall. “And – and you? How are you?”

“Better now.” There’s amusement in John’s voice and something else Paul can’t quite figure out. “Was starting to think you wouldn’t call, y’know? Did ya think about what I asked?”

“Yeah, yes. I did.” Paul bites his lip harshly, trying not to sound too eager. “I’d love to join the band, if you’ll have me.”

“Well, that’s great, Paul!", John says, not missing a beat. "‘m really happy to hear that.”

He _does_ sound happy and Paul’s feels himself smiling widely. He feels giddy, excited, for the first time in months. Like there’s too much air in his body, like he could just jump and float up to the ceiling.

He clears his throat. “So, I’ll play guitar?”

“Yes, you can do guitar and vocals – if ya want. I liked your voice.”

Paul clings to the telephone cable, trying to sound casual. “Okay, cool. I mean, yeah. Sure.”

“Okay, cool”, John repeats, chuckling. “We’ll be seven members with ya. I’m lead guitar and vocals, Eric’s doing guitar as well. Len is doing tea chest bass, Colin is doing drums, Pete the washboard and Rod banjo. Nigel is kinda our manager – you haven’t met him yet. The lineup's fluid, depending on who's available.”

“How often do ya usually have gigs?”, Paul asks, trying to remember all the information.

“Oh, every few weeks – depends on who’s booking us. We’re mostly singing in Pubs or cinemas, or fetes, like yesterday. You have your own guitar, right?”

“Yeah. A proper left-handed one, so I don’t have to, y’know, play it upside-down.”

John chuckles. “Well, ya _did_ manage that quite well, too.”

“Hm.” Paul bites his lip, can’t help but feel proud. “What about Ivan – he was a member too, right?”

“Yeah, he was doing tea chest bass before Len joined, but right now he’s more like our eyes and ears. Hangs out with us sometimes. Telling us about the other bands.”

“What other bands?”

“Y’know, other skiffle groups in Liverpool. Like Rory and the Hurricanes.”

“Oh, so it’s like a competition?”

“A little.” John chuckles again. “It's all about who gets the best gigs and such. There’s a band practise on Friday, by the way, at Pete’s house. Hope yer free.”

Paul holds his breath for a second, trying not to sound too eager. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Okay, cool, let me give ya the address.”

Paul quickly searches for a pencil and a piece of paper, finding them in the small drawer in the corridor. He pulls the lid off with his mouth and scribbles down the street and house number John dictates him. The ink smudges as he drags his left hand across it and he cusses under his breath, wiping his hand on his shirt.

“Okay, got it", he says after a second. "Are you always practising at Pete’s house?”

“Nah, just every now and then. Sometimes we’re at Len’s place too. We tried to do it at mine, but my aunt was _not_ having it.”

“Oh well – I hope I didn’t interrupt her at something earlier. She didn’t sound pleased about having to answer the phone.”

“Nah, that’s what she always sounds like. Just ignore it – that's what I do. ‘m _really_ glad you called”, he says again. Paul leans his head back against the wall, clucthing the paper with the adress in his palm.

“Me too. Also, my Dad’s really into music, he wouldn’t be bothered by it. So, y’know, my house would be an option as well, in the future.”

“Great. Oh, also there’s a Pub night at Wednesday, if ya wanna come. We’ll get a few pints, near the docks.”

Paul hesitates. “I’ll try. If not, I’ll definitely see ya Friday.”

“Alright – good night, Paul. If ya have any questions, just call. Don’t be discouraged by Mimi.”

“Okay, thanks. Good night, John.”

That night, lying in bed, he imagines telling his mum about John and the band. He hides his face under his pillows and breaths in the heat. All the lights are out. Mike and his Dad are back by now, having gone to bed as well. The house is quiet, like the entire town, sleepy, soft, wrapped in darkness.

 _It’s a skiffle group, but they’re playing rock songs too, sometimes_ , he’d tell hhis mum. _And they weren’t even that good with their instruments, but there was just something about the atmosphere. Everyone was dancing at the fete yesterday, not only hearing the music, but feeling it too._

_I told Mike about it and he was really jealous. He started drums a few weeks ago, you know, but he’s not very good._

_And then there’s the leader of the band,_ he’d say, pausing _. John. He’s so cool. I’ve seen him but never talked to him before. I really wanted him to like my music and I think he did._

_I almost couldn’t sleep last night._

_I told him now, that I’m definitely joining._

He breaths the stuffy air, warmth crawling under his skin. There is a car driving past his window. He listens to the soft roar, to the heavy silence after.

_Aunt Jin said I looked happy today._

When he finally falls asleep, it’s not to the usual nightmare.

Instead, he dreams of Scotland, a splintered memory. He can see the mountains, the way he and his brother breathed in the fresh air and laughed it out, coated in blissful unawareness. He sees the snow touching the tip of the mountains and he remembers the days melting together. He remembers before. That last morning in Forthlin Road, cut into little pieces, the journey ahead already occupying his mind.

He remembers, he turned around once, like an after-thought, hair shiny-black and windswept. He raised his hand towards the house to wave shortly at his mother. She was too far away now to see her face. The sky was cloud-spot blue. He was a boy with scintillating eyes and a mountain to climb.

He was saying goodbye and didn’t even know it.

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Featuring:**

School uniforms – exciting news – the taste of trust – an old bike – the boy from the bus

On Monday morning, Paul and Mike leave the house together. They walk through the small front yard to the low fence, where a few of Mike’s friends are waiting, picking him up with their bikes. Paul will never understand why. He watches as Mike quickly grabs his own bike and waves goodbye to Paul, before they ride away, along the streets, talking and laughing about something.

Paul rolls his eyes, before he walks over to the bus stop. A soft wind is tugging at his school uniform, but it’s warm already, the sky yellow and blue. He waits around four minutes, before the bus arrives, dirty-red, crowded. 

George is already in the bus when he gets on, having saved him a seat in the second-last row. Paul walks towards him, greeting him with a small wave. George is 8 months younger than him, has bony legs, sharp teeth and thick dark eyebrows that make him look broody even when he’s not. He’s also, probably, his best friend.

“How was yer weekend?”, he asks, as soon as Paul sits down next to him. He doesn’t sound like he asks to be polite, but like he genuinely cares about the answer. So, naturally Paul tells him all about the fete and the Quarrymen and John Lennon, watching with satisfaction as George’s eyes grow wide in awe.

“The boy we saw on the bus? That’s _so_ cool”, he breaths and Paul nods proudly.

“ _Right?_ So how’s it going with The Rebels?”

It’s a small skiffle group George just recently founded with his brother Peter and a friend of his, after his mum bought him a guitar. It’s a nice one, Paul’s seen it, dark glossy-red, costing 3 pounds in the shop. They had a gig already too, a pretty small one though, at the British Legion club. Paul missed it cause his father forced him to go to uncle Arthur's birthday with them.

“We’re practicing _Gamblin’ Man_ right now”, George says, which is not a surprise. Lonnie Donegan is George’s favourite singer and Paul likes him too of course, so he listens intently as George describes which chords to use for the bridge. It’s a bit fascinating cause George is even better at playing the guitar than Paul is, despite being 8 months younger, and way better at reading notes, too.

They leave the bus when it reached the school, walking through the gates together. Voices fill the air around them with bright chatter. The sun is blinding. George stopped talking about music at some point and started whining about his geography teacher, who has an incredibly dull personality and very bad breath as well.

Paul tries to feel sympathetic but can’t help laughing at his friend’s disgusted expression. They walk up the stairs leading to the school building, making their way through a group of fifth-graders.

Paul pulls the heavy door open, throwing another glance George’s way. “We’re meeting in the yard later, after school, yeah?”

George nods with the hint of a smile, before they part ways in the hall.

The day drags by slowly. Nobody seems much motivated, not even the teachers. The school year is almost over and everyone can already taste the summer holidays. It’s filling the air – a sticky-hot, sickly-sweet impatience.

Paul sees Ivan in his last class, Math. The other boy sits behind him, so Paul leans his chair back to look at him, balancing on two legs. He whisper-shouts his name. The teacher just came in, but is still sorting out the material on her desk and there are still some conversations flowing around. A warm, lazy humming. Sunlight is streaming through the dirty windows.

Ivan looks up and smiles at Paul. “Oh, hey, Paul, you good? Did ya call John yesterday?”

“Yes, that’s what I wanted to tell ya.” Paul smiles back, widely. “I’m in the band now.”

“That’s _gear_. All thanks to me of course.”

“Of _course._ ”

“All right, we’re starting – quiet please”, their teacher speaks up in a clipped tone. Her name’s Mrs. and she’s probably the only one motivated and determined to get through the whole material. “I hope you all did your homework.”

Everybody collectively groans. Paul lets his chair fall down to all four legs again. He hesitates before turning back around to Ivan’s table once more. “No, but seriously. Thanks, Ivan. This – this is exactly what I needed.”

The other boy just grins at him, giving him a thumbs-up. There is something soft entering his grey eyes, looking a lot like that sympathetic glint people often get when his mother is mentioned. Paul quickly turns back around.

Math is boring and complicated, but he tries to concentrate like always, writing everything down. He’s probably the only one. Today, it’s more difficult for him to concentrate, and not just because of the upcoming summer holidays. His mind is whirling back to the fete and forward to band practise this Friday. He feels nervous already, a sharp-prickling feeling under his skin. His palms are sweaty and he wipes them at his pants. The white numbers on the board blur in front of his eyes. 

He's grateful when the class is over, his last for today. He waves at Ivan and makes his way outside, to wait for his brother and George. The wind is hot and smells like orange-ice-cream. They’re going to George’s place today to eat lunch since their Dad is working late, like every Monday, Tuesday and Friday. On Wednesday they have school till five and on Thursday they’re usually at aunt Jin’s house.

Paul thinks that’s really unnecessary cause he’s fifteen now and he can totally cook noodles or make a cheese sandwich for him and his brother. His Dad insisted though and Louise, George’s mum, did as well. They don’t want them to be alone too much and that, again, is really unnecessary cause it doesn’t matter if there are other people around. The hole his mum left is there all the same. 

And it’s not even the worst part – the worst part are the dreams. Ever since she left, he has nightmares. In the beginning especially, they were so horrible, he’d wake up disoriented and screaming. His Dad came in every night and sat with him. The first couple of times, he simply stayed, perched on the edge of the bed like a stranger to kill the aloneness. A few nights after that, he whispered, “shhh, I’m here, it’s all right”. After a week, he held him. It was strange, since he’d never really done that before, but he had been too grateful to care.

The way he tries being there for Paul and Mike, cooking dinner, offering to talk about problems is moving and there’s a huge amount of love and honour and respect he has for his father.

The nightmares became less frequent and now, when he has one, Paul manages not to wake him, not to scream – he just lays there, biting his fist, screwing his eyes shut, waiting for the panic to leave, for the pain to become bearable again.

Daylight means safety. During the day it’s impossible to dream of his mother – he misses her and sometimes whispers her name and sees her face a hundred times in a single afternoon – but those are small miseries compared to the terror of his dreams.

Somebody calls his name and he blinks, disoriented for a second. He turns around to see George and Mike walk over to him; George with his dark eyebrows pulled together, Mike with a huge grin, a familiar sight. He smiles. They greet him and together they start walking to the bus stop.

“We got a test back – the biology one”, Mike tells him, his black curls bouncing up and down. “But, uh, don’t tell Dad about it.”

Paul rolls his eyes. “And why not?”

“It’s just not that _important_.”

“He got a D”, George says matter-of-factly and Mike yelps _liar_ and hits him on the arm and starts skipping down the street towards the bus stop, out of their reach.

“He’s gonna fail that class if he keeps that up”, Paul mumbles, staring after him.

George just shrugs and shakes his head. “The teachers love him. He’s gonna be fine.”

It’s fifteen minutes on the bus to George’s house and a just two-minute walk once they reach the station.

Louise greets them from the kitchen and tells them to take off their shoes and wash their hands. She made her special Lasagne cause she knows Paul and Mike love it and she smiles kindly when they step into the kitchen, asking how school was. The small house smells familiar, tasing of wood, crushed mint leaves and trust.

“Paul’s in a band now”, George tells his mum, once they all sat down and started eating. His older siblings aren’t home, so it’s just the four them, like usually.

“Oh really? That’s great, Paul”, Louise says, reaching out a hand, swiping his black hair from his forehead. “Just like yer Dad.”

“No”, Paul says, swallowing his mouth full of Lasagne. “ _Not_ like my Dad. Our band is cool.”

She smiles amused. “Your Dad was pretty cool back in the day.”

Paul can’t really imagine that so he just rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Who else is in the band?”

“Only boys from Quarry High School”, George says before Paul can. “So, it’s really special that Paul got to join! They’re called the Quarrymen and –“

“George, let Paul tell the story”, Louise chaises him. George closes his mouth, pulling his dark eyebrows together. He looks even more serious than usual like that. Paul shrugs and eats another fork full of Lasagne. He likes how invested George is in the whole thing.

“No, it’s fine, go on.”

“Okay, so”, the younger boy says, pausing dramatically. Louise and Mike look at him expectantly. “The leader of the band is this really mean teddy boy called John Lennon – we saw him in the bus once with his mates but we didn’t talk to him cause we were scared he was gonna hit us –“

Paul coughs. “I was _not_ scared of that – that was just you –“

“Sure –”

“Also, he’s not that mean at all. He’s just really cool.”

“He is”, George allows. “And also terrifying. He’s almost seventeen!”

Louise chuckles at them. “Well, that sounds all very interesting. So how did you meet that boy, Paul?”

“I went to a fete on Sunday, with Ivan. He knows him ‘cause they live in the same street. He introduced us. I played the guitar for him and he really liked it.”

“I bet he did”, Louise says with a smile. “So then he just asked you?”

“I played piano first and then, yeah. His band mates thought ‘m too young but he said he didn’t care cause he _chose_ me.”

George opens his mouth. “He didn’t say that.”

“He did!”

“He _never_ said that –“

“George, please. If Paul says he said that, then he did. You gotta tell us how the first band practise went, Paul, yeah?”

He nods with a grin and Louise turns to his brother.

“So, Mike, did you get your biology test back?”

.

As it turns out, his Dad forbids him to go out to the docks on Wednesday night, claiming it’s a school night and he should be in bed by eleven.

(“Dad, that’s ridiculous, I’m _fifteen_ –“ “You have to get up at seven, that’s eight hours sleep, do you want to be exhausted and fail your classes?” “Well, no.”)

So, that’s that. 

He does go to bed at eleven on Wednesday, but can’t fall asleep for hours. It’s hot in his small room and his throat feels dry but he’s too lazy to walk downstairs to the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. He feels restless, tossing and turning. He’s excited for Friday, but most of all he’s bloody nervous, because the other boys are all older than him and what if they’ll judge him and won’t like him and what if the whole thing doesn’t work out like he hopes it will?

He also wonders if they're sitting at the docks right now, drinking beer, laughing about something. If John is wondering why Paul couldn't come, if he even notices he isn't there. Maybe he forgot he invited him at all.

Paul finally buries his head in his too-warm pillow, closes his eyes and tries to ignore that thoughts and the heat. He counts down from a hundred, waiting for the nightmare.

It still catches him off-guard, like always, washing over him like ice-cold water. There’s no sound in it, there never is, just grey streets, twice-breathed air, a huge city he feels lost in. He’s running through a crowd of people, searching for someone. A bitter taste fills his mouth, making him nauseous. He’s dizzy, thirsty, his hands are shaking. Nobody is looking at him, the bodies pressing against him are hard and cold. Nobody can hear him scream, he himself can't. The silence is painful and the longer he searches, the worse he feels, like he might faint any moment. And then there’s the moment – the one he wakes up from every time –, where he freezes right in the middle of the crowd and realizes he forgot who he’s searching for.

The next day goes by quickly, smoothly.

School is alright, the weather hot. Nobody did their homework and the teachers are fed up and want to go home as much as the students, so they let them go half an hour early. Paul works after school, like most Thursdays, delivering a paper, Echo, in Allerton and Woolton.

He put the stack of papers on his bike, gripping the rusty handlebar tightly as he rides down one of the smaller streets, stopping every few houses. It’s hot and sticky outside and he can’t wait to be done with this.

He turns around a corner, reaching a broader street he needs to cross. There’s not much traffic. A gust of wind blows past, coming from the river between the flat-roofed dowdy buildings in the south-west. 

When he turns his head to the right to check if there’s a car coming, he sees John Lennon in the distance. The older boy is half-turned away from him, his auburn-coloured hair styled into a quiff. He’s with Pete, the blond one, and two other blokes Paul’s never seen before and a bird, clinging to his arm. Her black pony tail is bopping up and down as she giggles at what he’s talking about.

Paul rides a little closer, slower now, unsure suddenly. He wants to say hi but something holds him back. He catches scraps of conversation.

“. . . the boy from my class – the fat one”, he hears John say loudly, and “no, no, you should have _seen_ how embarrassing that was –“, laughing spitefully, while he continues to make makes fun of someone. The girl guffaws gleefully.

Paul stops his bike. His black hair clings to his forehead, sweaty, curling from the heat. He watches as John throws his head back laughing, all eyes on him, just like on the stage in front of the church and inside the tent next to it – like he demands the attention of everyone he’s in a room with, like he wants everyone to hold their breath for him. There is a cockiness to him, a hard pull around his mouth, as he pushes the clingy girl away from him, as he throws narrowed glances at the other blokes. Like he soaks up the admiration, but isn’t willing to give anything back.

And suddenly he’s not the boy from the fete that grinned at Paul widely, or the one at the phone, saying _‘m so glad ya called_. He’s the boy Paul and George had seen on the bus that one time, laughing loudly with his mates, rowdy, intimidating, cruel. He had made fun of someone back then too, pushing a smaller boy back on his seat when he wanted to get up, screaming a crude joke through the entire bus, in the direction of the driver, watching as everyone around him erupted in laughter.

And Paul realizes he has no idea yet who John even _is_ and he wants to say hi anyways, but he can’t bring himself to. He grips the handlebar of his bike tighter and turns it around to cross the street, riding towards the next one. There’s a line of trees, throwing shadows over the pavement. 

**~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the band practise :))


	4. Chapter 4

**Featuring:**

Pete Shotton’s backyard – cheap beer – rock ‘n roll – a missed bus – the joy of cigarettes

Pete Shotton lives in Fairfield, all across town. Friday evening, Paul takes the bus there and walks the last bit, down the narrow street. The sun’s low in the purple sky when he reaches the right house, just a bit bigger than his own. It has a brown car parked in front of it, a white door with the paint coming off and a shrill-sounding bell. Paul takes a step back after he rung it, and waits.

A short, curvy woman opens the door for him, smiling politely. She has blonde hair, swiped into a bun. “Hello?”

Paul holds his chin high, putting on his best grown-up face. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Paul – I’m here for the band practise?”

He really hopes she knows what he is talking about. Her smile doesn’t falter and she nods. “Ah, yeah. I’ve never seen you before though, are you new?”

“I am”, he says. “This is actually my first practise with the band, so, uh, yeah.”

She nods again, gesturing for him to come in. The corridor is small and covered in dim light. There are pictures of children all over the wall, probably hers. Most of them are blond. She tells him to call her Bessie and to ignore the mess (he can’t see any mess, so that’s easy), before she points to the left.

“Just walk through the living room, outside in the garden. They’re always in the backyard. It’s more spacey. Also, my husband gets annoyed at all the noise – he wants to watch the TV in peace, y’know?”

Paul nods quickly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He smiles at her and walks outside in the dark. He can see a small garden shed on the other side, made of dark wood and covered with small chains of light. He quickly walks towards it. Music and loud voices are bleeding out of it, so instead of knocking, he just pushes the wooden door open and slips inside.

It looks like most of the members are already here. They’re sitting in a half-circle on the thick carpet on the floor or an old couch, their instruments around them. There isn’t much furniture, just some shelfs and a small table covered with beer bottles and ash trays. It’s stuffy-warm and kinda cosy, smelling like toffee-apples and something very bitter.

Paul’s eyes slide around and instantly find John, who sits in the middle of the couch and looks up the very same second. His hair is a bit tousled, looking a darker brown in the light. His cheekbones are sharp like his eyes and the line of his jaw. Paul hesitates for a short moment, but then John grins, wide and open, and all the weird thoughts from yesterday disappear.

“Paul”, he says loudly, getting up and walking towards him. “Ye found it.”

“Yeah.” Paul smiles awkwardly. “Hope ’m not late?”

John just shrugs his shoulders, still grinning. “Haven’t started yet. C’mon.”

He grabs Paul’s arm gently and pulls him over to the couch. Paul follows him, almost stumbling over the carpet, but managing to keep his balance. He watches as John kicks one of the boys, Colin’s (?), shin, who rolls his eyes in response and gets up to make room for Paul. They sit down, Paul pulling his guitar case between his legs, gripping it tightly, fighting down his nerves.

“Hey”, John says loudly and instantly everyone shuts up and looks over to him. “We can start now – Eric’s not coming cause he has, I quote, an important appointment he can’t reschedule.”

He rolls his eyes while he says it and one of the boys across from them snorts. “He’s meeting that bird, isn’t he? The blonde one, he’s been pinin’ after for _ages_.”

Pete whistles. He’s lounging on the carpet, his blond hair swiped from his forehead. “Lydia? Can’t believe he actually managed to ask her out. Can’t believe she said _yes_ – she’s way too hot for him –”

John clicks his tongue. “Careful, there’s some drool right there on yer chin.”

“Yeah”, the boy across from them agrees, reaching over. “Lemme get that.”

Pete leans back and smacks his hand away, pulling a face. “Arseholes.”

“ _Anyway,_ moving on”, John says with another eye-roll, raising his voice again. Everyone’s eyes are back on him in a heartbeat and Paul can’t help but feel a little amazed at the control the older boy has over the group. “Do ya all remember Paul from the fete? He’s our newest member now, doing guitar and vocals.”

They all look at Paul then, greeting him loudly and he smiles, nodding his head. He’s been wrong to be so nervous, he thinks. 

“Well thank God – from what I heard on Saturday, yer way better at guitar than Eric anyways”, the boy across from them says with a chuckle. “’m Len, by the way.”

They all repeat their names and Paul nods, hoping he’ll remember them now. Len is tall and lanky, his tea bass chest leaning next to him. Pete got the washboard probed on a chair, dull-grey in the light. Rod’s on the couch with them, sitting on John’s other side, hair cut very short, an old banjo lying on his lap. Colin, it really is Colin, is lounging on the armrest now, next to Paul, clutching some drum sticks between his fingers.

John nudges Paul’s side. “Show me yer guitar?”

Paul nods, eagerly – he’s really proud of it. He opens the case and pulls it out carefully, handing it over to John. The other boy takes it, looking it over. It gleams dark-blue, glossy, polished.

John whistles. “Where’d you get it?”

“Well, my Dad gave me a trumpet last year, for my fourteenth birthday and I played for a while – but I like it more when I can sing while playing, so I traded it for the guitar. It’s a Framus Zenith”, he says. “I learned to play it right-handed – or I tried, but, uh, it was really hard. I saw a poster once, in town, ‘bout a Slim Whitman concert. He was playing left-handed too. So, I thought _fuck it_ – and reversed the order of the strings.”

He shows him, fingers skimming over the dark silver. He bites the inside of his cheek, thoughtful for a moment and when he looks up, he notices everyone was listening and is staring at him now. Paul feels himself blush.

“Wait”, Len says slowly. “You can play guitar and piano _and_ trumpet? Something else?”

“Drums. And flute, and ukulele”, he says, stopping himself before he adding triangle and bells and xylophone, because nobody cares about that, right? 

“Alright, Mozart”, John says, something teasing in his voice, as he gives him back his guitar. But just like on the day of the fete, he sounds a bit impressed as well. He grabs a piece of paper form the small table and holds it out for Paul. “Here’s the list with the songs we’re doing right now – you know all of them?”

Paul skims the paper, feeling a smile tug on the corner of his mouth. They’re a lot of skiffle songs, some rock songs scattered in between. They stand out to him immediately. “Yeah love ‘Havana Moon’ and ‘Rip It Up’ – ‘m not sure about ‘La Harpe Street’, though. Ken Colyer?”

“Yeah, that’s right”, John says, leaning over the paper as well. He squints at it, probably trying to read the slightly-smudged, very-messy handwriting.

“Ya forgot yer classes again, John”, Pete calls, a light cackle in his voice, and okay, maybe that’s the reason. Paul looks at John curiously, but the older boy just throws a glare in Pete’s direction, who stops chuckling and presses his lips together.

“Right”, John says slowly. “We’re starting with Ken Colyer then – ya better be ready, dickhead. You need the notes, Paul?”

“Uh, no. ‘m shit at reading them”, Paul admits. “Just play it for me?”

John looks at him for a few seconds, before he nods, grabbing his own guitar. They play the song then; John starts it on his guitar and the other instruments pick it up and join in, one by one. It’s a bit messy and uncoordinated and Paul flinches every time he hears a wrong note, but it’s fun to listen too anyway, loud and reckless – the whole stuffy air around them vibrating with it.

Paul tries the melody out on his guitar and it doesn’t take long till he can play it himself. He watches John’s hands, watches them form the rhythm and tries to keep the tempo. It doesn’t quite fit, and he noticed at the fete already that the other boy was playing different chords, taking some artistic liberty or something, but now that he watches John’s fingers up close, he realizes he’s playing _banjo_ chords and his guitar isn’t even tuned the right way and his strings are gonna fucking snap cause they’re way too tight –

Paul stops playing abruptly, his fingers slipping from their A-chord-position.

“Okay, okay, wait”, he says, raising his voice. “Can we stop for a second?”

The song comes to a halt slowly, the music drifting away. Len plays one last wrong note, blinking confused. Everyone is looking at him strangely. John next to him raises an eyebrow, something hard and glimmering in his iris.

“What?”, he asks, not sounding rude, but half-way there.

“Uh.” Paul coughs. “It’s just – your guitar isn’t tuned the right way.”

Pete clears his throat, sharing a look with Rod. Paul watches the exchange from the corner of his eye and realizes slowly that nobody dares to criticises John, like ever, probably.

“I mean, it might sound even better if it’s tuned the right way, y’know? I can do it for you – let me – let me show you.”

He reaches a hand out, unsure suddenly, like yesterday when he saw John laughing spitefully in the streets, like that time on the bus, like he’s reaching out to some kind of wild animal, and it’s stupid probably. But. He has to try, right?

John is staring at him and everyone around them holds their breath. It’s way too quiet suddenly, the smell of wet wood and toffee-apples and nicotine climbing up his nose. He widens his eyes a bit, in that innocent way that always, always worked with his mum and the people in the sweet-store, giving him as many free wine gums as he wanted. He doesn’t look away from that sharp glimmer in the older boy’s eyes, doesn’t dare to blink. This feels important, somehow. 

John gives him his guitar. Their fingers brush over the realm like the first time, when he allowed Paul to play for him on it, almost a whole week ago, and it feels like much longer and much shorter and time is just a concept anyways, really.

Paul smiles, a little relieved. He puts his own guitar on the side and cradles John’s in his lap. He turns the pegs, the fingers of his right hand over the strings. He moves slowly, going through each string, carefully pulling them to try out the notes, till they’re all in harmony.

“There”, he says when he’s satisfied, giving the guitar back. John takes it and plays a chord, a banjo chord. It rings in the air, clear as a bell. Paul bites lip, watching John’s face.

“Huh”, the older boy makes. “Sounds different.”

“Good different?”

“Yeah, I guess. Now ‘Havana Moon’“, John says after a while and everyone agrees instantly and Paul smiles widely, feeling flushed and warm in the dim light and crowded space.

“Well, the washboard isn’t needed here – I’ll get more beer”, Pete exclaims and gets up. He leaves the shed while they start the song. It rings loud and rich and familiar in Paul’s ears. They play it twice, laughing at the way Colin starts drumming his drum-sticks on the small table and the bottles on it, trying to keep up with the rhythm. 

They play some more songs from the list, trying different combinations of the instruments. John sings some of the refrains, his voice deep, scratchy, unique. Paul joins in on some of the verses, sings the lyrics he knows, the higher notes.

After a while, they put their instruments away; only Rod plays some quiet melody on his banjo, a background noise. Pete brought some crisps as well as the beer and pushes the dark glass bottles in their hands. Paul clumsily opens his. It's cheap and tastes bitter, but it’s cold and he suddenly notices how thirsty he is, so he gulps it down greedily.

Len starts telling a story about some bird of his, and Paul isn’t sure how long they’re just sitting here, like this. At some point, Rod lays down on the floor and Paul turns on his back, leaning back against the cushion, swinging his legs over the backrest of the couch. He leans his head back, watching the small room from this new angle, everything lightly blurry, syrupy.

He doesn’t say much, except when he’s asked something, like which school he goes to or how he knows Ivan, or which type of bird he prefers. Which he isn’t really sure, but blonde probably. They seem content with that answer, mumbling their agreement.

John is lounging against the back of the couch, one leg bend, his boot on the fake leather cushion, close to Paul’s head, his arm on his knee, a cigarette dangling from the tips of his fingers. Paul looks up at the sharp angles of his face and thinks he looks incredibly cool. He doesn't say that much either, but when he does it's smart and witty and everyone listens. 

He points at Paul at some point, saying “I want you to sing _You Can Fly_ with me” and Paul thinks he’s serious but just laughs and shakes his head violently, rolling away, because he can feel the alcohol and _can’t_ feel the tips of his fingers. He pulls himself up so he can sit on the armrest – Colin went to sit on the floor as well, a few minutes ago.

“Love the song, though. Everything by the Everly Brothers, really”, Paul says, just so John knows, and clutches his beer bottle in his hands. It’s warming up under the heat of his skin, but he keeps drinking it anyways. His head is swimming with it and he needs to pee. The outlines of everything look softer now, the yellow light alive with dust.

John looks pleased at his words, a lazy smile stretching his lips and Paul smiles back and feels warm from the beer and the music and something else. 

Overall, it went better than he imagined it – better than he’d dared to hope –, and when Bessie throws them out a while later, and tells them to go home and get some sleep, Paul feels like barely two hours went by. They walk back to the house, their voices filling the air. It got dark without him noticing. The moon is sewn into the sky that night; clouds are stitched around it. Paul lays his head back to look at them, before Bessie ushers him inside behind the others.

They start putting on their shoes and jackets, while he hesitates and asks her where the bathroom is. She points towards the staircase and the door behind it, where the light is even dimmer and the carpet swallows his steps.

The bathroom is smeared with fingerprints and painted dingy white, not the most flattering light. He blinks against it, quickly using the toilet and washing his hands after, the water cold on his skin.

The mirror over the sink is smudged, but Paul still gets a pretty good impression of how flushed his cheeks are and how there’s something shining in his eyes. A black curl fell into his forehead and he swipes it away. He blinks, bites his lip and tastes metal. 

When he exits the bathroom after another minute and finds his way back to the living room, most of the others already left. John’s still here, though, leaning against the door frame, talking to Pete. Paul walks over to them, hesitating.

“Um, are ya going to the bus stop, too?”, he asks.

John throws a glance his way, ruffles his hair, and nods.

“Yeah, let’s go”, he says, pushing away from the door frame, almost like he _waited_ for Paul.

“I’ll see ya Monday”, Pete says to John and they both roll their eyes, not looking too excited at the thought of their classes. Paul really understands, especially with the summer holidays starting on Thursday. 

“Only three more days”, he says.

Pete nods. “I guess. See ya around.”

They say their goodbyes, and then John and him leave the house together and walk down the dark street, over to the bus stop. It glimmers silvery between the parked cars. When they reach the stop, Paul leans over to get a look at the timetable, to see when the bus to Allerton is coming, number 9.

“Oh, well”, Paul says, furrowing his brows as he manages to make out the numbers under the dirty plastic film. “I just missed it.”

“When’s the next one coming?”, John asks.

Paul sighs, sitting down on the bench. “Half an hour.”

“Hm.” John sits down next to him, so close their thighs and shoulders are brushing. It’s much quieter out here, and cooler too, a soft breeze ruffling their hair. It’s the first time they’re alone together, Paul realizes, without a telephone between them or John’s mates around.

He drums his fingers on his knee in a random melody and watches as John kicks some pebble stones out of the way, his boots scraping the dirt underneath. When John’s bus arrives just a few minutes later, Paul feels a bit disappointed, watching as it stops in front of them, the door opening with a hissing sound. Some elderly woman steps out, clutching a huge bag. John doesn’t make a move to get up.

Paul frowns up at him. “Aren’t ya getting on?”

“Nah”, John says, squinting at the clogged-up windows and the few people behind, sounding almost bored, like he can’t be bothered. “I’ll wait with you.”

Paul stares. “Oh. Well, you – you don’t have to.”

“It’s fine. The next one will come a few minutes after yours anyways. And Mimi might still be awake now, bothering me with clearing out the dishwasher.”

“I see”, Paul chuckles, thinking of the posh voice on the telephone. For a moment he wants to ask why he’s even living with his aunt – if it’s temporary or forever, if he knows his parents, if he knows where they are –, but decides against it. “You two don’t really get along?”

John thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. “Nah, it’s fine. It’s just her constant nagging – its driving me insane. I can’t do anything right. Here.”

He pulls out a packet cigarette, offering him one, while the bus drives away. Paul grabs it, suddenly beyond grateful that he and George tried smoking for the first time not too long ago, behind the school building, almost choking to death.

John lights his cigarette and holds it against Paul’s and they watch as it lights up as well, glistening orange between them. There’s a small crackle of heat, a sudden spark of joy.

“Ta”, Paul says smiling. He pushes the cigarette between his lips, being able now to breath it in without choking and embarrassing himself. He watches John smoke from the corner of his eye and thinks he somehow looks different in the silvery light of the moon, than he did in the orange light in the garden shed, less intimidating maybe.

“So, you liked the rock songs the most, hm?”

Paul blinks, registering the words after a few seconds. He nods. “Yeah, love rock ‘n roll – Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Carl Perkins. They’re on the radio all the time now. Y’know, my dad connected the radio in the living room to some Bakelite headphones, so that my brother and I can listen to Radio Luxembourg when we’re lying in bed.”

He thinks of the voices, familiar and powerful and brilliant and incredibly far away, the music melting together with the crackle of the radio, like another world right under his fingertips. John perks up at his words, like he knows exactly what Paul is talking about, a grin spreading across his face.

“Really?”, he says. “My uncle George did that too – put some extension cords up the staircase, to my room. It drove Mimi _insane_. We hid from her, usually, and drank his whiskey while listening to Elvis and radio comedy, lying on the floor in my room.”

There’s something in his voice suddenly. Paul can’t put his finger on it, but it makes him stop smiling. John looks down, at the street, still holding the cigarette and Paul watches as ash stumbles from its edge and lunges and lifts several times until it hits the ground.

“What happened?”, asks quietly.

John looks up, surprised at the question. Silvery smoke is spilling from his lips. He hesitates for a few seconds.

“He had a heart attack”, he says eventually.

Paul bites his lip. “When?”

“Two years ago.”

“Oh”, Paul makes. “That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words are stale in his mouth, overused, feeling like needles in his brain and he blinks, regretting them.

“Don’t say that.” John still looks at him and they’re close enough he doesn’t have to squint to see Paul’s face clearly. “Say you’ll sing _You Can Fly_ with me next time.”

There’s something in his eyes – there are so many things in his eyes and Paul can’t even begin to see and understand them all. He suddenly wonders what John has been up to, all the afternoons when Paul has been sat with homework, or who John has kissed when Paul's been eating dinner with his mother. If maybe all of the things they both have done, in their lives, smoking cigarettes behind school buildings, walking past the shops in Penny Lane, touching the strings of their first guitars, listening to the voices of their heroes on Radio Luxembourg, has all been leading up to this.

“Promise”, he says and the grin is back on John’s face. It’s sharp and golden and way too intense, but Paul can’t bring himself to be afraid.

**~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this took me longer than I thought it would, I’m sorry :( xx
> 
> Paul trading his trumpet for the guitar and being encouraged by Slim Whitman to actually play it left-handed  
> & Jim McCartney connecting Radio Luxembourg to his son’s rooms  
> are true events


	5. Chapter 5

**~ Featuring:**

A white-hot sky – fish and chips – a too-tight shirt – drunken laughter – an invitation

A feeling of freedom hangs in the air when Paul steps through the double-winged door, looking back once. The school building is old and tall, made of liver-coloured brick, with high ceilings and longs ominous wood-floored hallways inside. Not having to see it for the next weeks is bliss. It’s Wednesday, the last day of school and the sky, stripped of blue, is white-hot at five in the evening.

Paul walks over to the steps leading to the yard, clutching the straps of his backpack. He already said bye to George and the people he’s been doing that biology project with and John Duff Lowe, a friend of his, who sits next to him in music and plays the piano. He saw Ivan too, just a few minutes ago at the lockers. The older boy asked how the band practise went, so Paul stopped to tell him about it, the little garden shed, the music, loud and reckless, the way John waited with him for the bus. Ivan sighted happily at his words, probably proud of himself, before they said goodbye. 

Paul bites his lip now. He hasn’t seen John for four days, which feels much longer than it should have, and he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because he can’t be sure when he’ll see him next time – he doesn’t know when the next band practise will be, or where, or if they’ll just forget to tell him, which is not likely, since he’s a member now, but _still._ He can’t be sure. There is this feeling of uncertainty burning in his palms and the memory of John smoking on the bench by the bus stop, that seeps into his mind much more than can be considered normal.

Someone shouts his name and he stops in the middle of the steps and looks to the left. A tall, broad-shouldered guy and a small girl are standing there, waving him over. Paul smiles. One more goodbye, then. This one’s gonna be quick.

He met Neil and Ellie on the street when he was eight. On Forthlin Road, friendships are made outside, no matter the weather. The children rarely visit each other’s homes, cause they’re small and there’s usually very little in them. They usually played football back then, which Paul never really liked, between empty beer cans. Or hide and seek, or war sometimes – shooting each other down with dramatic noises.

The girls usually jumped over swinging ropes or quarters they’d drawn with crayons on the street, their braided hair bopping up and down. Ellie, the girl in number 16, is as old as Paul and always wanted to play war with them and they let her, because they liked the way she died. She was his first kiss too, behind the hill on the playground. 

She smiles at him now and Neil nudges Paul’s shoulder when he reached them, grinning down at him. He’s not even a year older but close to two meters already, and Paul’s not sure he stopped growing yet.

“Hey, haven’t seen ya today – you going home?”

Paul nods. “Yeah, _finally._ ”

Neil laughs. “Let’s keep in touch, yeah? Meet up sometime. George, too. Haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Yeah, he’d like that.”

Ellie hugs him, fleetingly, shyly. She smells like soap and red liquorice. “Maybe I’ll see you around, too?”

“Probably – I’ll give you a call sometime, yeah?”

He smiles at her and she nods eagerly. He waves at the two of them, sure that he said bye now to every single person he knows at the school. He turns back to the steps and walks them down to cross the yard. He’s ready for the holidays, very ready.

He thinks about taking the bus home and eating something – he’s starving. He walks along the little spots of sunlight on the ground, and thinks of warmed-up casserole and his guitar upstairs in his room and all the free afternoons, filled with heat and lemonade and sweet-melting ice cream, that lay ahead of him.

And then, when he’s almost at the gates and looks up from the sun-spots on the ground, he freezes. He stops walking so abruptly, he almost stumbles, and bites the inside of his cheek accidently, the taste of penny gums filling his mouth.

Right there, leaning against the gate, clad in dark trousers and a white shirt, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth remissly, is John Lennon. His auburn-coloured hair is perfectly styled, seemingly effortless, and he’s playing with a silver lighter, clicking it open and snapping it shut carelessly.

He looks like he’s waiting for someone and there’s a part in Paul’s mind thinking it might be him – but then that’s ridiculous. He’s probably waiting for Ivan or some bird he knows or –

Paul swallows harshly, shakes his head and starts moving again. As he comes closer, he notices John squinting his eyes at the passing students, which might have looked intimidating, wouldn’t Paul know now that it’s probably because he’s not wearing his glasses. And then, when Paul’s close enough, John lifts his head a bit and their eyes meet. He pushes away from the gate, a smirk curling around the cigarette. Paul swallows again.

“Uh, hi”, he says when he reached him. “What are you doing here?”

John just looks at him for a moment, then turns around and starts walking away, not saying a word. Paul blinks and follows him quickly.

“Waitin’ for ya”, the older boy says like it’s obvious. “Do you always take hours to leave the school building?”

“Uh, not – not usually. Said goodbye to my friends. It was the last day.”

“I know.”

They’re walking along the pavement, falling into step with each other easy enough, and John was _actually_ waiting for him, and what even is his life? Heat is making the air glimmer over the streets and cars are driving by fast, whirling up dust. His palms feel clammy and sweat starts collecting at his neck.

“Where are we going?”, he asks, but it doesn’t really matter to him.

“Town.” John breaths out a cloud of silvery smoke. “’m making sure ya actually come to the docks with us today, ya see. But we’ve still got some time. We can get food – ya hungry?”

“Yeah.” Paul stares, awestruck. “Sounds good.”

“Why didn’t ya come last Wednesday?”

“I – it was a school night. My Dad didn’t want me to go”, Paul admits, feeling his face flush.

John just grins. “Well, it’s not a school night tonight, so.”

Paul starts grinning too, he can’t help it. “Right, it’s not.”

John offers him a cigarette then and lights it for him, and they walk around town for a bit, along the small shops and the spotty store windows. The surrounding air is dry, hot, sweetly smelling. After a while, they stop at a small pub Paul’s never been to, but John claims has the best Fish and Chips in the city. It’s then, standing in line, that Paul realizes something.

“Uh, John?”

“Huh?”

He bites his lip. “I don’t have any money with me.”

“’m paying”, John says without hesitation.

“You don’t have to”, Paul says quickly, despite the hunger gnawing at his stomach, making him dizzy. “You just get something, I don’t need –“

“Don’t be daft”, John says with an eye roll and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. There’s something soft in his face for the flicker of a second and Paul blinks, trying to understand what that means, but John turns away before he can. Paul still stares at him as the older boy takes a step forward and orders for both of them and pays, and he just – he _doesn’t_ understand.

He doesn’t understand why John is doing this, why he walked all the way to Paul’s school and waited for him and took him here and is planning to bring him to the docks later. Or why it’s so _easy_ talking to him or why he’s being so _nice_ when all Paul heard about him so far are not-so-nice things.

John comes back with the food and they eat it at a standing table on the small square. It’s greasy and hot and delicious. Paul chews the chips quickly even though they burn the inside of his mouth. There’s a white sauce too, cooler and creamy, tasting like yougort and lime and olives. There are a lot of people around, who are done with work and want to take a walk or get food as well. Voices fill the air like bubbles and the sun is burning hot over the cobblestones of the square.

“How was yer weekend?”, Paul asks, before realizing that that’s a really lame question. He bites the inside of his cheek and watches awkwardly how the muscle in John’s jaw moves as he chews his chips.

“Kinda boring honestly”, he says with a dramatic sigh. “My cousins came to visit and they wanted to go see _12 Angry Men_ for the hundredth time.”

Paul smiles. “It’s a good movie though.”

“How many times have ya seen it?”

“Twice.”

“Right – the magic wears off after the eight time, just so you know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind”, Paul says amused, dipping another chip in the sauce. “Where are they from? Yer cousins?”

“Durness – up north in Scotland.”

“I have relatives there too, my great-great-aunt moved there with her husband, from Ireland. Their grandchildren live close to Elgin - they feel like real highlanders though." 

“Do they start every sentence with 'here' or 'hawl, you!'?”

Paul laughs loudly, surprised. “Every second sentence, yeah. They have _so_ many weird habits – do yer relatives burn their rolls, too?”

“They put pasta in their pies, does that count?”

Paul nods his head, still laughing. They start imitating their relative’s Scottish accents, bursting into laughter half-way through their sentences. John flails his arms around, and manages to drop a chip and get sauce on his shirt, a greasy stain, in the middle of his chest. Paul can’t help but burst into another fit of giggles. An elderly woman walking past looks at them strangely.

John narrows his eyes at him, but the corner of his mouth is twitching.

“’s not funny, look. I can’t go out like that”, he exclaims dramatically, pulling the shirt away from his chest. “I look like ‘m homeless.”

“Well, yeah”, Paul says with another chuckle. “You’ll have ta stay in tonight, I guess. Or, y’know, go home to change, before we meet the others.”

“’m not walking all the way back”, John refuses. “That’d be stupid. The docks are just around the corner from here.”

Paul bites his lower lip, self-conscious. “Right. I mean, I kinda wanted to get changed before, and get some money –“

“Well, yours is closer”, John says with a shrug, oddly reassuringly. “That makes more sense.”

Paul is surprised that John remembers where he lives - he only mentioned the street name once, at their first meeting. He decides not to think about it. “Well, you could come back to mine and I could lend ya something to wear.”

He doesn’t know why he feels so nervous making that offer or why he holds his breath while John considers it.

“I suppose”, the older boy says, but he’s smiling now, not trying to hide it. “Let’s go.”

They finish the food quickly, licking the salt from their fingers and throwing away the greasy paper. They walk up the street, in the direction of Penny Lane. The sun looks darker now, but it’s still high up in the sky. Paul wonders what times it is, seven maybe, half past. It takes them good twenty minutes till they reach Paul’s house, the brick stones looking red in the light.

Paul unlocks the door and pauses to listen for any sounds. His Dad isn’t there though, luckily, and neither is Mike. Paul knows he’s sleeping over at aunt Jin’s. He’s not sure why that makes him feel relieved.

They step inside and Paul leads John through the corridor to the stairs. It creaks under their boots as they walk upstairs. In the corridor leading to his room, Paul catches a glimpse of the old clock on the wall, spotty, framed by dark metal – it’s half past eight already. He blinks, but then the times he spends with John always seems to melt between his fingers like hot butter, so it shouldn’t surprise him.

His room isn’t exactly tidy and he feels his face flush when they’re inside and John looks around. The older boy doesn’t comment on anything, besides the records in the shelf, next to Paul’s desk. He flips through them, throwing a grin in Paul’s direction every now and then.

“That’s the new one, isn’t it?”, he asks, pulling out a Buddy Holly album. The artwork on it is shiny and it’s not second-hand and worn at the edges like most of the other records.

Paul nods. “Yeah, my Dad bought it a few days ago. Did ya listen to it yet?”

“No, put it on?”

“Now? What if we’re late –“

John rolls his eyes, not seeming to care in the slightest. “They’ll live.”

Paul agrees, and they end up listening to the whole album, commenting on each song, picking out their favourites and criticising the bits they don’t like. He enjoys this; it's like their opinion is all that matters, like a yard stick to measure everything with. If they both don't like a song, it's not a good song - not an onpinion anymore, a fact. 

When they finally decide to get dressed, the needle lifted of the vinyl, and Paul puts on the radio instead. It’s of dark vanished wood with a single green eye that moves along the dial as he turns the knob. Frank Sinatra appears, a disembodied voice, sliding around on the tune like someone slipping on a muddy sidewalk. 

Paul feels a smile lifting the corners of his mouth, as he steps away and tries to do something with his hair. He styles it with a little grease, but he can’t do it the way John can. He watches from the corner of his eye how the older boy walks over to the small wardrobe to look through the shirts, just like he did with the records, like he feels completely at home. He chooses a white shirt, putting it on and throwing his own over the chair at the desk. Frank Sinatra slithers up to a note, hits it, flails, recovers, oozes in the direction of another note.

“Don’t you just _love_ the way he does that?”, John asks and turns around to him. Paul looks at the way his shirt spans across John’s broad shoulders and stretches at his biceps.

“Yeah”, he says.

“What do ya think of the shirt?”

“Uh, yeah”, Paul says slowly. “It’s a little tight, innit?”

John shrugs, throwing a glance towards the mirror. “So? I wanna wear it.”

“Okay. Yeah, sure”, Paul says, nodding eagerly. “You can keep it, if ya want.”

They manage to leave the house after another twenty minutes and walk back to the centre of town, to meet with the others at the docks. It’s windier now, but almost as hot. The sun looks like it’s about to set, nearly touching the horizon. It’s the two of them, Pete, Len, Rod and Eric, the other guitarist Paul hasn’t met yet.

He greets Paul enthusiastically, has a dimple and eyes so dark they look black. He’s taller than Paul but very skinny and he mentions the girl he hung out with on Friday, Lydia, in every second sentence. He’s likable, on the first glance at least.

They all walk over to the small Pub street to buy beer and cider, cool and bitter-sweet. They take it outside with them and walk around for a bit, but mostly they hang out at a waist-high stone wall, separating them from the flowing river, and drink and talk, their voices loud in the air, like they’re the only ones at this place, like it belongs to them.

The boys start slagging their teachers at Quarrybank High, telling embarrassing stories about some of them and it’s a little mean, but Paul can’t stop laughing. He’s blaming the alcohol. They ask about his school too and he tells them about the horrible music lessons there, and his math teacher, whoch calls all of his students Anthony because he can't remember their names. 

The whole time, he’s strangely aware of John – when he’s next to him, when he’s not, when he’s making a joke, when he’s leaving to get more beer. His presence is strong, like a light that draws the eye.

He climbs on top of the stone wall at some point, spreading out his arms, laughing about something Len said, the river and the dying sun at his back. His auburn coloured air looks like bronze in that light. Paul lays his head back to look at him, feeling awed. He’s larger than life. 

He reaches out a hand, telling Paul to come up there as well. Paul grabs it, letting himself be pulled up. The bricks are slippery under his shoes, but John lets go of his hand and grabs his arm instead, holding him steady. The wind is warm on his face and smells like petrol and sweet cider and dry heat and melting orange ice-cream. It ruffles their hair carelessly and John’s hand is still on Paul’s arm. 

They sit down eventually, and it’s quieter now and Paul doesn’t know where the others are, but he doesn’t care enough to turn around to look. He’s kicking his shoes against the wall, watching the water.

“You hear that?”, John asks, leaning slightly forward. “Sounds like _Blue Days Black Nights_.”

Paul listens, picking up the sound of a guitar, close to the Pubs behind them, underneath the sounds of voices and laughter. It’s only a soft strumming, like the person playing isn’t too sure of themselves, hesitating a few times. Paul tries to pick out the chords. “A E A D – yeah, you’re right. A7.”

“What?”

“A7. The chord.” Paul blinks at John’s blank impression. “You – you never heard of that?”

John shrugs, leaning back again. “Nah. ‘m playing banjo chords on the guitar.”

“Yeah, I noticed. That’s cool – it’s different.”

“It’s easier”, John says with another shrug. “My mum plays banjo. She taught me.”

“Oh?” Paul is surprised at the mention of John’s mother – he never mentioned her before. For a second, he thinks that she maybe died and a weird sense of dread fills his head like a thunder cloud, before he realizes that John said _plays_ , present tense. “Where – where does she live?”

“Here, in Liddypool. Other side of town.”

“Oh”, Paul makes again, even more surprised. He wants to ask why he isn’t living with her, but he bites his lip instead. He looks at John’s profile, all sharp lines and strong jawline. He looks more distant suddenly, unreachable again, and Paul doesn’t like that.

“I could show ya, y’know?”, he says, in a rush. “The guitar chords, all of them, how to play ‘em.”

“Like ya showed me how to tune the guitar?”, John asks, turns to look at him again, with a smirk. The wind ruffles his auburn-coloured hair. 

Paul smiles, enthusiastically. “Well, yeah. You could come by, to my house, I mean. If you want. And I could –“

“Yeah, alright”, John says, leaning even closer. There’s that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but there’s nothing mocking about it. He’s so close Paul can feel his warmth spilling out into the space between them. “I’ll come by Friday.”

Paul blinks, surprised, pleased. “Okay, great. Yeah. Cool. Friday.”

That’s the day after tomorrow. He’ll see him again the day after tomorrow and he doesn’t know why it makes him as giddy and excited as it does, and it doesn’t matter anyways. The taste of orange ice-cream grows stronger on his tongue. John is still looking at him, with the smirk curling around his lips and his eyes, not dark at all, golden, brighter than the dying sun beneath them.

**~**


End file.
